Il Macchia
by Machspookyvelli
Summary: Italy, 1494. A young, roguish Machiavelli finds himself thrown into the midst of political chaos as Florence crumbles and the country is thrown into war. Historical!Machiavelli. M for language. UPDATED OCT 29


_(Art used with permission)_

_*Il Macchia literally means "the stain" or the blemish (with connotations of "macho" manliness) and was apparently Machiavelli's nickname as a young adult. I find it to be extremely cute._

_** "The Ass" was a poetic parody Niccolo Machiavelli published. The opening dialogue "I've just been reading…in my Ass" was directly copied from a letter he sent a friend, so all copyright goes to him. I wish I was that cool._

_Assassin's Creed II/Brotherhood ©Ubisoft. I do not own Assassin's Creed or Ubisoft's sassy/fierce characters, nor any portion of Italy's history. The plot is completely based on factual dates and events, except for a few embellishments. And unlike the Templars, I'm nice enough to tell you when I've altered the truth. So set your textbooks and lawsuits aside and take notes because your AP World History teacher will be impressed._

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_November 17, 1494. Florence, Italy._

_2:30 PM_

"I've just been reading," a man began, his hazel eyes twinkling and mouth twitching into a hint of a smile. He spoke clearly and fluidly, carrying with him an air of charming confidence that offset his youthful appearance. Two others were sitting with him, drinking and talking amicably in the soft afternoon glow of the quiet tavern.

He paused and waited for their full attention, one hand grasping a chalice of crimson liquid, the other motioning for silence. "I have just been reading Ariosto's _Orlando Furioso_," he furrowed his brow and nodded sagely with feigned seriousness, "and truly the whole poem is really fine and many passages are sublime." Sarcasm gushed from his thin lips.

The man sitting to his left unsuccessfully suppressed a snicker of amusement as he leaned back and placed a booted foot on the table, "_Questo è una stronzata_! That's bullshit, Niccolo! Since when have you ever praised another so lightly?"

Niccolo Machiavelli simply winked and continued, "My only complaint is that, while he mentions so many other poets, he leaves me out like a right prick! What he has done to me in his _Orlando_, I shall not do to him in my _Ass_."**

The men burst out laughing at his open brazenness, tears welling at the corners of their eyes. Niccolo flashed a rare grin and finished off his drink. When the hearty laughter had subsided, the man who spoke up before, a fast friend of Machiavelli's named Francesco Vettori, rose to his feet. He warmly addressed the third colleague, an older Florentine dressed in luxurious ocelot furs; no doubt flaunting his family's superior status.

"_Mio amico_, Guicciardini! It's been such a pleasure to get together, but we must be going..." The dark Italian glanced up at Machiavelli, who was attentively inspecting the backside of the nearest waitress. Vettori cleared his throat and placed a hand on Guicciardini's cloaked shoulder, "Please pass on my blessing to Maria."

Although Francesco Guicciardini came from an extremely influential Florentine family and was himself a prominent statesman, he had always welcomed the casual political debate with the two younger men. He gave slight chuckle, his rosy face exposing signs of drinking, and grasped Vettori's hand with his own ringed one.

"_Si_, of course. You and Niccolo undoubtedly have other plans to attend to; plans _certainly_ not suitable for a married man like myself, eh?" At hearing this, Machiavelli wrenched his eyes from his prurient view and hollered a little too loudly, "Oh you pious shit, Guicciardini!"

Before Vettori could interject, Machiavelli was on his feet, grabbing one side of his navy-blue-and-crimson cape and whooshing it up beside his slender figure dramatically. A few of the tavern's quieter guests turned to watch the spectacle. "As the poet of all poets Dante Alighieri once said—"

Vettori sighed and lowered his dark eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose. "_Caro dio_, not your precious Dante again, Niccolo..."

"'—the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in times of great moral crises maintain their neutrality!'" Machiavelli laughed and placed both hands on his hips, shaking his head, "I apologize, Guicciardini, but the passion of—" He stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes shifting from gaiety to unease as something caught his attention outside. Detecting his sudden change in attitude, the two friends followed his gaze to the open window behind them, and watched with increasing horror.

The tavern door flung open, and a breathless little boy, no older than ten, cried a sentence that stopped every heart in the room.

_The French were seizing Florence._

_November 17, 1494._

_2:45 PM_

Machiavelli and Vettori leaped towards the door, yet were stopped shortly outside the bar, blocked by the rushing multitudes of panicking citizens. Guicciardini pushed them aside, mumbling indiscernibly under his breath

"I bet they're heading to the _Piazza della Signoria_," he said venomously, nodding at the crowd. "That bastard French king wants an audience for his tight-assed parade."

Chaos had erupted as Florentines of every class fled out of their doors onto the cobblestone streets. Some carried the pudgy forms of infants, some violently shouted over the tangled masses of heads, others yet taking advantage of the moment to swipe a fig or loaf of bread from an open cart. Men spurred on skittish horses, yelling warnings over their mount's thick manes as people scrambled out of the way. A group of courtesans gathered by a stone bench, nervously exchanging hushed words with red lips. Beyond them, several heavily-armed _condottieri*_ in polished silver brandished ornate _cinquedeas,_attempting unsuccessfully to placate the crowd. Everywhere, tension cracked liked electricity, and a chill rippled through the November sky.

Niccolo pushed back a wave of tawny hair, furrowing his brow as he contemplated the circumstances. Italy had been embroiled in turmoil ever since the smirking, self-righteous Pope Sixtus had pursued a power-hungry quest for land thirteen years ago. The death of Sixtus offered a shard of hope for Florence's future, but his successor, Pope Innocent VIII, had other plans. _And now he's invited in barbarians to do his barbaric deeds, _Machiavelli brooded resentfully, hot with disgust. _But to march so boldly into Florence...?_

Lost in thought, he failed to notice a certain cloaked figure materialize from the street, calmly navigating through the swirling disorder. As Machiavelli turned to discuss matters with his friends, the man stepped closer, approaching him indirectly from the side. Now practically behind him, the man eyed Machiavelli's red coin purse, dangling enticingly from a golden cord. Without hesitation, he effortlessly reached out a lean, gloved hand and effectively removed the pouch without so much as a _clink_.

Vettori, who had found himself observing Machiavelli out of one eye, noticed the hooded figure as he ducked away and barked, "You, stop! _Fermatevi_!" Niccolo jolted back into reality, alerted by the shout, but barely caught a glimpse of the thief's brown hood before he vanished into the disarray. Before either could pursue chase, Guicciardini interjected, placing a firm hand on Machiavelli's shoulder. "Niccolo, do not waste your time. I know the thieves in this area; your money is long gone, _amico_." His tone grew colder. "We should go. Best we be there to welcome his Holy Majesty to Italy. Come, I know a shortcut." He turned on his heels and disappeared back inside the pub, leaving the two men little choice but to follow.

_3:10 PM._

They hurried through the darkened, empty tavern, and reached a partly hidden door in the back pantry. Quickly stepping his lithe frame through the exit, Machiavelli emerged onto an empty alleyway, doused in shadows. On either side, walls of various brick and stone loomed above, their reddish-sandy color blending in with the cool grey haze of the sky. A raven cawed and landed on one of the clothesline stretching overhead, ruffling its blue-black feathers with a shiver.

"…I don't know anyone who detests the ambition or the greed of that abominable Roman pope more than I do..." Guicciardini mumbled as he wriggled his slightly plump self out of the entrance and joined the two.

Machiavelli grinned, addressing his friend sardonically as they headed down the alley. "My, my, Gucciardini, I'm not even going to mention your suspicious knowledge on the whereabouts of that entrance. I would _never_ have taken you to be a man of stealth—" he continued with increasing cynicism, poking the man in the side with a slender finger, "—considering the incalculable quantities of wine and cake you enjoy so dearly."

"Ha!" Gucciardini replied, cuffing the young Italian upside the head. "And _I_ wont even mention the bad timing of your terrible humor."

Yet Vettori, who walked in silence on Machiavelli's left, remained deeply concerned. He was used to Niccolo's lack of somberness; in fact, the man nearly smiled at every situation presented to him. . '_It is better to be adventurous_,' he had once said, placing his hands on his hips as he usually did, '_than cautious_.' Vettori snuck another glance at Machiavelli, who walked with an air of confidence and enthusiastically conversed Gucciardini, aiding his latest political analysis with zealous gestures. Vettori blinked and looked away. _Those were different times. We were boys then._ Doubt clouded his eyes as he stared straight ahead, focused on the arrival to the forum.

What was once a distant buzz of voices had nearly escalated into a thunderous roar. As they quickly approached the end of the alley, each man fell silent with uneasy anticipation. Machiavelli felt his fingers slide across the reassuring hilt of his sabre as the sweeping panoramic of the great plaza opened in front of them.

_2:55 PM._

_That was too easy_. The man smirked, his piercing violet eyes glinting with satisfaction at his latest burglary._ I'll give it at least an hour before that gawking loon realizes what he's missing. _Sliding a faded crimson pouch into his pocket, the thief skillfully maneuvered away from the scene of the crime, briefly pausing at an abandoned fruit cart to snatch a plump apple. Then, breaking into a run, he swerved onto an adjacent street and, in one swift motion, sprung onto a stack of wooden crates, nimbly grabbed the edge of a low-hanging roof, and hoisted himself onto its clay tiles. His pointed-toe boots _click-clacked_ on the adobe slates as he strutted across the rooftop, casually peering out from his russet hood at the activity below.

He gracefully vaulted across several other roofs before finally coming to a stop at a ledge, crouching low and surveying the sight. Beneath stretched the great _Piazza della Signoria_. From his elevated viewpoint, the thief could see the massive droves of the French military filing into the square, thrusting their signature blue-and-gold fleur-de-lis flags into the wind. Each man displayed a full set of silver-plated armor, and gleaming _passot_ swords clanged at their sides with each marched step. Flanking either side of the ranks were equally formidable mounted cavalryman, each armed with sharpened lances. They tightly reined white-eyed, feather-footed draft horses, each covered from nose-tip to haunches in thick steel mail. Tossing their muscular necks into the air, the horses pranced nervously along with the beat of the snare as the army slowly occupied the courtyard. Casting the entire spectacle in shadows was the imposing _Palazzo Vecchio_ itself, its impressive brick facade and soaring bell tower standing strong in front of the forces.

The thief gave an apathetic yawn. _Politics_. He hated the word. _War, politics, murder; it's all the same, _he mused to himself, leaning back on his heels. Taking out his apple, he polished it on his sienna sleeve and took a bite. _Pah, the only thing that man seems to agree on is money and women._ A muffled sound near a chimney behind him caused his ears initially to prick, but he only shook his head, calling out over a half-munched apple, "In the name of the _Santa Madre_ herself, Bertrando; you _must_ improve your craftiness!" Without turning his head, he chucked the fruit over his shoulder, which landed with a thud and a subsequent "_Ow_!"

"La Volpe, _per favore_..." A young man stepped out from the shadows, grimacing and rubbing his head. He was dressed in a loose navy tunic, synched at the waste with a brown belt, and a deep russet bandana wrapped around his wide brow. An emerald-green scarf swirled around his neck as he held out the apple. "I don't think you'll be wanting this back, then?"

La Volpe gave a light chuckle, standing and warmly embracing his colleague. "_Mi fratello_. It's been too long." Taking a step back, he continued, eyeing him carefully. "I trust your mission was satisfactory?"

Bertrando nodded seriously, his blue eyes locked on Volpe's violet ones. "Si, I have much to tell." Reaching into the inner folds of his robe, Bertrando carefully drew out a sealed scroll, stamped with the unmistakable seal of royalty— French royalty.

La Volpe's heart quickened as he coolly obtained the document and slid in into his own tunic. He placed a hand on Bertrando's slight shoulders, speaking with upmost sincerity, "Thank you; but alas, I must go." He turned with a flourish, his cape rippling behind him as a breeze began to stir the air.

"There's a man I must see."

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_I'll try to update every week or so. With college applications, it might take a little longer. Um, also I really have no idea where this is going, so please bear with me! Comments are more than welcome :D_


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